Behind the Falling Curtain
by Rrenell
Summary: Allow me to tell the beautiful yet sorrowful chain of events that is the confusing relationship of Sherlock Holmes and Doctor Watson. That beneath the heavy curtain of tribulations of the heart, may these two find what they have so desperately seen but never observed.
1. Chapter 1

Of Amourous Theory and Brash Practice

_With the last line uttered passionately by silken lips, the audience roars in exclamation, their voices drowning the buzzing of the air with shouts of praise and claims of delight. _

**ACT I**

Outside the wind blew mercilessly, the heavens above becoming dark and grey as the rumbling of the thunder grew with the blinding flashes of lightning. The heavy rain engulfed the odd pair's flat while its showers cleaned the murky and rough paved streets before them. Sherlock stared blankly outside the wet window, following the disjointed trails of the falling raindrops until they bled against one another, the natural occurrence becoming vastly extraordinary under the consulting detective's calculating gaze.

"Care for a cuppa, Sherlock?" John's warm baritone voice abruptly resonated throughout the small sitting room, its owner making his way towards the kitchen to prepare the hot beverage. "It's the perfect weather, don't you think?" John hummed absentmindedly while he poured the water into the old but still-working kettle, the warm steam comforting in his calloused hands. "Figured we could rest a little before Lestrade called with the next case." Heavy footsteps grew louder and louder as they simultaneously grew closer and closer.

John tugged at the ends of his crème colored jumper. "Are you listening, Sher-" A pair of slender arms suddenly snaked their way towards the soldier's waist making him jump slightly in surprise. The shorter man brought his own hands towards Sherlock's attempting to unclasp them from his midsection but (un?)fortunately, to no avail. "Sherlock," John let out a teetering sigh. "Don't do this. Not right now. Scotland Yard is expecting us in 30 minutes-"

"We'll make do with 20."

Another sigh escaped his lips. John didn't dare turn around. He couldn't bare to see that look one more time, so cold, so devoid of any emotion so...so...Sherlock. "Oh, for Christ's sakes!" John harshly whispered through clenched teeth. "We can't be late to the crime scene, again. Greg will have a fit!"

"It's worth it if he ends up taking his frustration on that waste of oxygen that's Anderson." The black-hair man fingertips rubbed slowly over John's hips in a circular motion, eventually pressing harder into his skin, oh so deliciously harder...

"Please, Sherlock..." The blond man's breath hitched in his throat when he felt one of those arms travel lower and lower and lower still. John's voice faltered with each second passing by, his small puffs of breath becoming harsh, ragged pants of delicious, miserable anticipation. "I...I...I just asked if you wanted-"

"You know what I want." In one fluid motion, Sherlock had John turned, his cold grey-green eyes gazing into blue vibrating ones, their bodies flushed together with their noses touching, their lips just millimeters apart; just seconds away from giving rein to pure, animalistic pleasure.

Sherlock licked his lips. John gulped.

"Sh..Sherlock..."

His gasp was swallowed by an all-engulfing kiss, all traces of hesitation gone with the sensuous brush of lips. John's arms trembled as they wrapped themselves around the taller man's slender neck, that simple motion bringing the pair impossibly closer yet. The soldier's eyes fluttered shut as his lips moved to and fro, eventually parting with an audible intake of air, willingly submitting to the harsh demand of the detective's sinful albeit delicious tongue. Their heads turned as the kiss deepened, Sherlock's tongue leading the other as in an erotic dance while his right hand wondered inside John's fuzzy choice of cloth.

The rest after the kiss lasted for but a moment and soon their lips met once again. "Mmm..." John's neck tilted back, exposing the full length of his neck to the person more than willing to devour its extent. The detective languidly trailed his tongue across the smooth terrain, nipping beneath the ear lobe then traveling down to John's Adam's apple, licking the bump in a circle thrice, kissing it twice, then sucking once, long and hard. "Jesus, Sherlock," John absentmindedly pulled at his dark curls, his fingernails trailing sinuous figures on Sherlock's scalp. One tentative hand roamed under Sherlock's tight navy blue dress shirt, the buttons long gone with an unceremonious "pop" from John's hasty hands. Each inch of pale skin was touched delicately, every single one of the caresses made just right to elicit the most desirable moans and groans of pleasure from the normally stoic detective. Oh, to say John felt privileged was an understatement.

_Brr. Brr. _

"Sherlock," John muttered in between Sherlock's fervid kisses. "The phone-"

"Leave it."

"But-"

"I said _leave it._"

John then hissed as Sherlock's long fingers brushed candidly pass his left nipple, the tip already hard and aching, not unlike the prominent bulge in his charcoal trousers.

"Bloody hell, John, I need you. _Now_."

Make that _their_ trousers.

John could never get used to the perfection that Sherlock brought because, well, because Sherlock _was_ perfection. Upon all the sadness and shame that came after their heating encounters, awe was definitely felt during said encounter. Sherlock's spontaneous outbursts of sudden contact were filled with raw want, raw need for him and only him.

At least, that was what John told himself during depressing days and sleepless nights.

Sherlock's shoulders shook with fevered lust as he raised John's hips, John quickly taking the hint and bracing himself against the kitchen table, his smaller legs wrapping tightly around Sherlock while both of their trousers pooled around their feet like puddles of melted fabric. With a groan, Sherlock aligned his dripping manhood with John's pulsating hole. It aligned perfectly. Too perfectly, he thought dismissively.

Meanwhile, John whimpered as Sherlock's cock penetrated him, the tightness seemingly overwhelming for the first few seconds. His shiny blue eyes tightened as he subtly breathed in and out through his nose, his fingernails abandoning Sherlock's luscious chocolate mane for his slender shoulders instead. He opened one eye to catch a small glimpse of the man before him and suddenly felt the need to open both.

Sherlock looked absolutely breathtaking. His dark hair looked darker now plastered to his forehead with sweat dripping down from it. A hard look of concentration marred his features, completely neutralizing any other movement except for the slight twitch of his brow. His bottom lip was bitten down harshly by his perfect, white teeth and his chest heaved with every breath he took. And John could not simply look away.

"_Ah_!" Until the harsh thrusts began.

Sherlock never approached anything with kindness, much less calm. Of course this rule applied to sex as well, John was well aware of that, although that didn't make it any less painful. Sherlock was a tactless man and as such, these encounters were plainly just that: tactless. While the idea of sex with Sherlock itself was spontaneous, the actual practice, however, was anything but. His thrusts matched that of his kisses: rough and calculating, but with a vast amount of lust. John desperately wanted more, so much more, but even he knew when to stop dreaming. And for now, he'd gladly take what he was given.

"Sh..Sherlock...oh, _God_!" The soldier buried his golden head in Sherlock's collarbone, Sherlock's hips thrusting forward in time with his moans.

"Nngh..." The small flat was soon filled with the lewd sounds of skin slapping against skin, groans and moans of utter pleasure mixing aesthetically with the thunder of the storm outside. Sherlock gnashed his teeth as an intense heat pooled in his groin, his grip on John's hips leaving bruising marks.

"Bloody hell, Sherlock," John clutched to Sherlock with all his might, just one delectable push away from seeing white from sheer ecstasy. "I'm c-coming...!" And with one final thrust, Sherlock spilled his seed inside the shorter man, John soon following after.

Their post-sex bliss was far from one, really. It had barely enough tme to register in John's mind before Sherlock pulled out while John detached himself from Sherlock's body. Sherlock raised one quivering hand to the left and reached for the kitchen table napkins to clean the white spectacle, courtesy of their "quicky", for lack of better term.

Three seconds had passed, now four, before John heard the vibrating sensation of Sherlock's infamous phone break the silence of the room. In one swift motion, Sherlock grabbed the phone and answered the call, his voice curt and to the point. "I heard you the first time, George, we're on our way."

"_It's 'Greg', you twat-!"_

Click. With a flick of a wrist, the line was rudely cut off. Not that it bothered Sherlock in the slightest and, honestly, John was too confused to care.

"You heard the queen." Sherlock raised his trousers and buckled his belt. He managed to change into another dress shirt conveniently draped over his chair then proceeded to tame his wild curls by combing them with his fingers. "I suggest we get moving."

Already buckling his own belt, John fixed himself up at best as he could. Not good enough, Sherlock's snide but true past comment rang in his ears. Pulling down his jumper then reaching for his black coat, the doctor made his way out the door, finding the detective far ahead of him, his long trench coat flapping behind him as he bolted down the stairs.

And that's all this is. John's steps slowed down as he made his way quietly past those very same stairs. A quick fuck. He knew that, by God he knew that.

"Oh, for God's sakes, quickly, John!"

That did not mean he accepted it though.

"Well it's about bloody time!" Lestrade threw his hands in mid-air for emphasis. "Care to explain what the hell you two were doing?"

"Where's the corpse?" Completely ignoring the inspector's question, Sherlock walked right past him, his miniature magnifying glass already out of the compact leather satchel. "I'm seeing it alone. Keep your men out of it."

Lestrade glared daggers to the back of his head but soon realized it was all for naught, which then brought him to John. "You've got to be joking," he placed his hands on his hips. "This is the third time you've been late for a case this week. What's going on?"

"Probably all of London's cabbies figured out what a colossal freak Sherlock is." Donovan's insult cut through Lestrade's monologue. "Don't blame them. I wouldn't give him a ride either."

Although the comments were directed at John and Sherlock (more so Sherlock than John), neither of them claimed nor denied anything; one was too busy observing a mutilated corpse while the other was too busy staring at his shoes.

"Out of anyone, John, I'd thought you would..." Lestrade's voice trailed off as his eyes squinted in John's direction. His eyes briefly met John's but lost the connection oce the army-doctor quickly turned his head the opposite way. Apparently he found the wall's crevices much more fascinating. "John," Lestrade took two steps towards John. "Are those..?" His fingers pointed at John's neck. John immediately followed his gaze then sucked in a breath. He felt his cheeks go aflame as he realized what exactly was it that made the inspector's eyes go wide. Out of the corner of his eye, John could clearly distinguish a red-purple bruise just centimeters above his collarbone.

Actually, make that _two_ red-purple bruises. The other was on the opposite side of the other bruise, hallway hidden beneath the collar of his buttoned shirt. A lot more obvious they were, what with the arge contrast between his pale skin and the bright undertones of the love-bites. "I..." John stuttered. "I...I-I don't know..."

"So that's why you two were late." Anderson sauntered behind Lestrade and Donovan, his hands covered in bright blue nylon. His shirt was badly wrinkled and his belt missed a loop on his trousers. "We always suspected it but never thought you'd actually follow through."He snorted in faux amusement. "Would you look at that. Even the human block of ice gets the urges now and then." He snorted again. "Actually, make that 'now' and then 'then'."

"You know, Anderson," Sherlock spoke from behind the whole group, his hands probing through the mass of scarred flesh and burned hair beneath his feet. "There's a lot more to this case than just one corpse." A sniff here, another sniff there. "Why don't you go around and ask every single person down the street if they saw anything?"

Anderson harrumphed in indignation. "Like I would go to those limits."

Sherlock then placed his magnifying glass back in its place, rose to his full height then turned to look at Anderson. His lips curled into a devious smirk. "Oh, Anderson." His face displayed fake pity. "Your stupidity knows no limits."

"_Why, you-!"_

"That's enough, Anderson." Lestrade rubbed his eyes in agitation then pointed to the door. "Get back to your position."

With one last look of utter disgust and a twinkling of fingers on Sherlock's behalf the forensics man left the room. Sherlock resumed his own inspection once again as he made his way to the opposite side of the room, his gaze fully concentrating on the incinerated wooden floor.

Lestrade cleared his throat then looked at John once again. "So..." His hands clasped behind his back as if he were a troubled little boy. "You two, huh?" He gave a tight lip smile. "Well, I can't say I'm surprised-"

"Oh, please. He got them from his late-night date." Sherlock voiced out from the back of the room. "Couldn't have the decency to place them in far more secret places-"

"Alright, I get it. You're not together, fine." The inspector sighed while Donovan rolled her eyes. "Could we please get back to the task at hand?"

John, completely mortified by the previous discussion, vigorously nodded his head. "If it's not too much to ask..." He covered his neck extra carefully then resumed his place, just a couple of feet behind Sherlock, and took out his note pad and black ball-point pen ready to jot down any given information.

"Well, then," Lestrade clapped his hands. "What do we have so far?"

Sherlock tugged his scarf a little loose then proceeded to give his famous fast-paced deduction. "Obviously female, 27/28 years old, judging by the angle of the burns..."

John tried to follow his deduction, momentarily admiring the vigor with which Sherlock carried his theoretical speculations. The way his green-grey eyes would wien whenever he mentioned an especially important detail and the way his hands would be brought up to draw signs and make air calculations, all of it John admired and stored in the back of his mind for later reminiscing. But then his eyes grew downcast and he subconsciously found himself going further back, away from Sherlock. He wouldn't lie, Sherlock's denial of the prominent love-bites stung in more ways than one. He knew telling the truth would, at this point, be preposterous, but he couldn't help but feel a glimmer of hope.

After the long and rather detailed deduction (and a few annoyed and surprised glances), Donovan approached Sherlock from behind, her boots stopping centimeters away from his bended knees. "So you're really not together?" Her eyes narrowed in suspicion.

Sherlock placed his small leather satchel inside his coat then turned to look at her, his nose crinkling in contempt. "Why on earth would I be with John in that way?"

And much like a candle without oxygen, the small glimmer of hope inside John's heart extinguished, leaving nothing but broken remnants behind.

A/N: Hey, guys! Upon seeing this show, I immediately fell in love with it and this beautiful pairing. The chemistry between these two is heart-warming and amusing and filled with lots of angst, it's just, well...Beatiful. I'm fairly self-conscious about my writing, so having a review, even if it's a small one will really motivate me. Alright, that's it. Take care :)


	2. Chapter 2

Disclaimer: SHERLOCK belongs to its respective owner.

ACT II

Wheels of Reflection

A couple of hours later, both Sherlock and John left the crime scene, John walking ahead and flagging a slick black cabbie for the ride back home. As he opened the door of the car he felt a hand pull him back. "What's wrong?"

"I'll take this cab, you take the next one." Sherlock opened the door wider and presumed to close the door after him, and with a rumble of an engine, the car turned its wheels and left John standing on the outside curb , his mouth slightly opened but soon shut it. This rude gesture was done many times before and no longer registered as rude but more as "normal", at least in Sherlock's case it did. John simply sighed then pinched the bridge of his nose already feeling a migraine coming up on the left side of his head. With a tired raise of his hand, he waived another cabbie hoping to finally make it back to 221B Baker Street.

Like any good case, this one ended just the same: short and utterly boring. True, Moriarty was a complete psychopath, that much was certain, but he did manage to bring some form of entertainment, Sherlock would give him credit for that. It was no surprise his mind was constantly turning over to the dangerous depths of boredom and when that happened, his addictions would often, always, get the better of him: nicotine, narcotics, adrenaline... John.

As much as he despised Anderson and his cumbersome bag of gormlessness, the simple bastard was right. Sherlock _did_ feel urges and he definitely acted on them. The general idea of sex was seen as mundane by the average-joe, but Sherlock knew better. With the right partner, sex could be better than drugs.

A vast space of his "Mind Palace" was occupied with many past sexual encounters between himself and John, the most prominent one being the very first one. In fact, as he looked outside the murky window of the cab, his mind wandered (no, retraced. _Never_ wandered.) back to that fateful day...

_"Where are they?!" Drawers were flipped and turned, sofas removed, papers strewn all over the flat finally falling slowly like big, flat pieces of dry, white leaves just turning to land on the dusty burgundy rug of the floor. Sherlock made his way to the mahogany bookcase and hastily began to pull every book, one by one then two by two, out of the shelves searching frantically for his prized possession. _

_"Where are they? Where the hell are they?!" Abruptly, he stopped the throwing of the books and widened his eyes. Hands were placed on his slender hips as he breathed hard and fast, his overactive mind the only thing in motion amidst the large still state of disarray of the flat. Then all of a sudden, "Mrs. Hudson!"_

_"What is it, my dear?" Her dainty voice rang from the bottom of the stairs then managed to grow louder as she approached their flat. "I heard the ruckus all the way down from- Oh my goodness!" She placed a hand to her heart, gasping as she fully took in the disastrous scene before her. "What on earth happened here? It looks like a tornado was let loose!" _

_"Where did he keep them?" He walked towards her and placed his hands on her shoulders, looking straight at her, making her squirm underneath his unwavering gaze. "I know you know where they are so," he _

_took a deep breath then closed his eyes as he exhaled. "_Where. Are. They."

_"Seeing as she wasn't the one who hid your secret stash, she doesn't know." John then sauntered through the front door, a plastic bag of groceries carried in his right hand. He frowned as he saw the disaster that was the sitting room and tried to go through the moved chair and thrown books on the floor. "And you don't need to know either." _

_Sherlock removed her hands from Mrs. Hudson's shoulders only to stalk over to John and place them on either side of his face. "John, you don't understand." He brought their faces even closer. "I need them. _Now_!" _

_"Well, I-I see that you two need some time to sort," she waved her delicate hands around. "This, whatever this may be." She gave one last look at the odd pair, shook her head at the mess of the room, then closed the door behind her as she made her way down the stairs of the building. _

_"Sherlock," The detective turned to look at the army-doctor just centimeters away from him. "Get your hands off me, your fingers are starting to hurt."_

_"Not until you tell me where my cigarettes are." He swallowed then licked his dry lips. "John, please." John could feel Sherlock trembling, his breathing becoming agitated while he hissed through gritted teeth. "I'm _this_ close to having a panic attack." _

_Oh, John believed him alright. _

_"Just...just," he looked at John, really looked at him. Sherlock raised his green-grey eyes and rested them on John's lips then raised them up even more to look at John himself. The words that were spoken next out of his mouth were barely audible, only susceptible to John's own ears but despite being said at a very low volume, the words thundered inside of John's head. _

_"The act of kissing distributes a hormone named oxytocin produced by the endocrine system. That same hormone is able to subside a large amount of mental tensions and lowers anxiety levels by a significant amount through a decrease in the stress hormone cortisol." If John didn't have his eyes opened right now, he could have sworn Sherlock was reading from a medical website or something of the sort. Then again, it _was_ Sherlock. _

_"W-What's that supposed to mean?" John could hear his own blood thumping through his ears, the question he earlier had raised lingering heavy like thick smoke. "Sherlock...?" _

_"This." Sherlock's right hand swept around the back of John's neck and finally rested on the back of his golden, soft head. John's eyes widened to comical proportions as he felt a pair of eager lips latch themselves onto his own with so much desperation until his mind fully grasped the current situation. With a muffled gasp, John firmly pushed Sherlock off him and pointed an accusing finger in his direction. "What do you think you're doing, Sherlock?" He brought his shaking fingers to his lips and found them still buzzing as if shocked with electricity. "You just...you can't just-"_

_"It's either this or nicotine. Take your pick." Sherlock knew, of course, that those two were most definitely not the only two options, but for now those two were the only ones registering in his mind. The trail of his intellectual thinking had, at some unnerving point, gone cold and he desperately needed either a burning stick of tobacco between his index and middle finger or John's soft lips kissing him senseless. Come to think of it, both sounded really good at this point. "Just do something but do it fast." _

_John's whole body froze for a moment, his fingers still lingering on his swollen lips. He looked at Sherlock for a moment then quickly looked back down. Sherlock, on the other hand, became even more restless than what he started with. He could see that John was thinking about his proposal harder than what was necessary so he decided to give him a little push. "Do not think much of it, John. It's simply a way to release stress." At the end of his sentence, John looked up at him but his eyes no longer widened. Instead its as if they grew heavy and held something keen to disappointment. _

_By this point, Sherlock was too anxious to really care._

_"Oh, come now, John. I've seen you aroused too." And the wide eyes were back again. "Your breathing gets heavier, your heart rate increases and your hands get clammy. On their own, these observations may just assume out of a nervous disposition, but there's only one decisive factor that proves my deduction." Which each words hurriedly muttered, his lips came closer to John's. "And-And what decisive factor is that?" John stuttered. _

_Sherlock cupped both sides of John's face once more, the words falling from his lips like glistening honey. "The obvious tent in your trousers." _

_If Sherlock hadn't decided to claim John's lips right then and there, he would have been a witness to John's red-tipped ears and flaring nostrils. Fortunately, he did and when their lips met, John kissed back with the same level of intensity as did an anxiety-filled Sherlock. _

_"You bastard..." John's hands slid down Sherlock's purple satin shirt then rested on his hip, pushing himself closer still to his body when he felt the flick of a tongue pass under his bottom lip. Automatically, he parted his mouth and gasped as he felt that same tongue roam through his warm crevice, Sherlock tilting his head to the side to plunge in deeper into John's moist cavern, his long arms clutching John tighter than what both deemed appropriate but oh so necessary. _

_"Yes," Sherlock panted besides John's ear. "I can definitely feel the... The stress leaving." _

_"Could you for once in your life remain quiet-ah!" John moaned as he felt Sherlock's knee press into his groin, the brisk friction bringing sweet, sweet torture. The pressure soon turned into a hard circular motion and John just couldn't get enough of it. "Don't, Sherlock, I'm going to-"_

_"That's the point." _

_John didn't know what to think at this point. Hell, he couldn't even think at all. Sherlock was good at this, too damn good that it made John rethink all those times Sherlock claimed to be, in context, "asexual". _

_"Mmf..." Their kisses soon turned frantic as their touches grew bolder. Sherlock, being the ever dominant figure he always was, soon had both of them staggering towards John's chair (it was a bit more comfortable) then, upon landing on contact, placed both of his thighs on either side of the smaller man's hips. He placed his palms flat above the army-doctor's panting chest to provide leverage but accidentally managed to bring their navels together causing Sherlock to give a deep groan and John to gasp in pleasure. _

_"Sherlock," so many questions plagued the delicate Doctor Watson, Sherlock could see it in the way his pupils darted to and fro as if looking for an escape. Only that was the problem: Sherlock wasn't in the mood to give him one. "What-"_

_"A bit busy now, John." And with that, Sherlock claimed John's lips once more, relishing in the feeling of the warm, quivering body beneath his own. Both parties remained mute for the remainder of the afternoon, trading their words for groans and moans of delectation, passing a silent vow that this impulsive meeting was the first but certainly not the last. _

Sherlock remembered absolutely every single detail of that time: the temperature of the room, the temperature of John's body as he reached climax, the way he tilted his head back and groaned when he touched a particular sensitive part, and the way he dug his fingers into his hair, pulling at the curly strands as if they were his one and only lifeline. Those specific memories were stored somewhere far, hidden quite well in his grand "Mind Palace" only to resurface whenever dullness threatened to intervene.

Sherlock was correct about this deduction, like all those in the past, however, this deduction brought a sense of pride and satisfaction that all others failed to bring. He owed John a big favour. Sex had actually managed to stimulate his mind without the harmful effects of nicotine or cheap drugs and had gone further to prove not to be addictive. Plus, Sherlock could now release his sexual frustration in a convenient manner. It was all just a figural patronage system, so to speak. No emotions nor conflicting hesitation, just a pure carnal sedation of needs. Indeed, Sherlock owed John, but there was absolutely no way Sherlock was humble enough to actually _owe_ anyone anything. He felt it best to cross that bridge when he got there. Speaking of getting there...

"We're here, sir."

Sherlock was used to deeply thinking in seemingly random places but to look outside a car window while the weather outside was cloudy, well, Sherlock was surprised no one had solved world hunger with that type of thinking.

Pulling his trench coat tighter, Sherlock had one foot out the cab, the other soon following after as he reached for the knob of their small but comfortable flat, 221B.

A/N: Hello, again! This chapter is predominately shorter than the first one, in case you haven't figured it out already. If you feel like I should make them longer, shorter, etc. please let me know, ok? Thank you so much for those of you who came across this story and gave it a shot, especially Ladybug221B. Your PM was really heartwarming. Alright guy, please review and I'll uodate as soon as I can. Bye!


	3. Chapter 3

_Disclaimer: I do not own SHERLOCK. _

ACT III

"Dr. Watson, your five o'clock is here."

John breathed a sigh of weariness, his fingers rubbing his eyes in a circular motion. "Alright, send him in." His blue eyes darted to the ticking clock hanging meticulously on the white left wall. The second hand moved in a steady rhythm while the minute hand seemed to barely be moving at all. _By God, this day cannot end sooner... _He ran a hand through his hair to tame the wild strands then rubbed his face twice to remove any indication of sleepiness.

He was failing miserably.

Two knocks on his door later and he prepared himself to seem presentable for his patient. "Come in." With his office door opening, two blue eyes widened as his "patient" was made seen.

"Hello, John. Fancy seeing you here."

The doctor quickly tried to regain control of his aghast facial expression but was still not quite successful at masking his surprise. He raised himself from his chair out of habit then, upon realization of his presence, immediately sat down . "Fancy seeing _me_ here?" He shook his head back and forth at the incredulity. "For Pete's sakes, I _work here_, Sherlock." The unexpected arrival of the detective was making the exhaustion from his body gradually diminish and in its place something akin to anxiousness flourished. "If anything, I should be the one surprised to see you."

In turn, Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "Of course." He deliberately made himself comfortable on one of the two leather chairs in front of John, his slender form fitting snugly in the cushion. One long leg draped itself on top of the other while his hands came together at the tips, said tips lightly grazing his bottom lip. "I assume you're wondering as to why I'm here."

John's gaze followed absolutely every movement made by the detective in front of him. To see his body so perfectly molded into the furniture of his office filled him with an odd sense of satisfaction. "That depends. Are you suffering from any sudden illness?"

Sherlock curled his lip in distaste. "Maybe Anderson's stupidity has finally taken its toll on me after all these years." John simply chuckled in response. From the inside of Sherlock's coat, a single slip of ripped parchment was brought to light. The edges were wrinkled and the creases mismatched as if the note was taken in a haste. "I managed to obtain-"

"Rip."

"-this piece of information from our suspect's office planner." Sherlock's lips tightened in annoyance at the uncalled-for interruption. The annoyance, however, soon dispersed and was replaced with a smirking look. "Care to guess what it is?"

John reached for the small piece of paper feeling a shiver subconsciously running through his arm at the subtle brush of knuckles between himself and the man sitting across from him. He pushed that feeling aside, however pleasant, and focused on the intel before him.

_October 3. 21:00 The Marching Brook _

"The Marching Brook?" John stared at Sherlock, his brow furrowing at the primal name. "That's a gentlemen's club north of Kensington."

"Indeed." The address and date were hidden in the folds of his coat once more. Sherlock switched the position of his legs and leaned back with a deep sigh. "Although to refer to The Marching Brook as a 'gentlemen's club' would be like referring to a prostitute as an 'exotic dancer'." John tipped his head in agreement. The Marching Brook was infamous as it was famous, that was a given. That place was a haven for the dirty rich and corrupt of all of London and other parts of Europe. The structure of the establishment was nothing different from a run-off-the-mill whore house: you came, you paid, and you got yourself a decent shag. The only significant difference was the establishment itself. The rooms for privates seemed like five star hotel suites, the customers regularly paid in stacks of thousands not the nitty-gritty loose bills, and the whores resembled something close to models (that is, if the drinks had anything to do with it). Being a source of prostitution, one would think it would have been shut down. But if there ever was a more prominent example of money buying power, clearly this was perfect. Bottom line, the establishment was too big to fail. All in all,_ The Marching Brook _was never John's number one choice of destination for an evening out. He was missing two very important things: money and lack of ethics. "So I'm assuming we'll be able to find our suspect there?"

"If all goes as planned, yes."

John frowned. "What's that supposed to mean?" He narrowed his eyes looking straight as Sherlock. "You're pulling strings, aren't you?"

"If that were the case, then I'd give Mycroft the credit of puppeteer." His fingertips were placed at his lips again. "He's handling his part from the shadows while I do the dirty work. Not that I'm complaining." He sent John a wink. John quickly looked at his desk not trusting his blush to level down. "Of course you don't..."

His eyes landed on the clock once more, the minute hand landing on 12. "Shit," he muttered under his breath. "Hold on a minute, I need to fax something for the personal doctor of one of my patients." He raised himself fully this time making his way towards the door leaving Sherlock alone in the army-doctor's office.

Being the ever sleuth he was, Sherlock began observing, his overrated version of what others would refer to as "snooping". His calculating gaze immediately fell on the rotating chair in front of him. The stitched edges were worn, bits of brown thread falling loosely in separate parts. Obviously John failed to receive the chair at its prime. The leather of the chair had body prints, most noticeable on the head rest and base, more than likely over-pressed when John felt tired or stressed. His desk was for the most part clean. There were no knick-knacks nor any mess of strewn papers (he blamed John's military efficiency) and most importantly, no pictures which signified loose family ties, if there were any at all. Except, of course, his sister, Harry. But he quickly dismissed her as the photogenic type. The only thing standing was a computer, its keyboard and mouse, and an engraved silver pen placed on the side. It read, "J. Watson", a complimentary gift from a fellow comrade, perhaps, as the color and design was far too blasé to signify any romantic sentiment. Judging by the surface of the pen, it was considerably old but maintained in good condition nonetheless. Sherlock momentarily felt a pang in his chest at the notion of John harboring something from a stranger for that long. Who on earth could treasuring the pen be that important for?

Sherlock let his head roll to the side, the new angle enabling him to see something behind the computer screen. It was... a ball? A crystal ball. A crystal, kaleidoscopic ball. Like a moth to a flame, Sherlock became enraptured with the vast ray of colors refracted by the white light of the lightened squares of the roof above. It was fascinating. The detective wasted no time in gathering the small sphere in his hands, rolling the ball around watching as his fingers became the colors' canvas. Up the ball went, landing on the opposite hand. And up again it went... rolling to the other side, bouncing from the wall, and going under John's desk.

_Great_.

Seemingly disinterested, Sherlock ignored the absence of the pretty ball... for about two minutes before he decided that having the ball was crucial and more than worth the strenuous act of bending down and crawling for it. If there ever was a moment Sherlock believed in the heavenly deities, surely being alone while he crawled like a toddler to fetch a petty ball was it. He couldn't fathom how utterly ridiculous he looked on all his fours fetching after some toy. A fascinating toy, but a toy nonetheless.

Finally, Sherlock found himself under the doctor's desk, the ball temporarily bleak and dull due to the lack of light. He grabbed the sphere and rested there for about a minute rubbing his finger around the smooth rubber. Why does John have a ball anyway?

"I really don't think a copy of everything is truly necessary." John's voice resonated throughout the small office as he made his way inside. "As if one piece of paperwork wasn't enough-Sherlock?" John stopped dead in his tracks. The office was deserted. He could've swore Sherlock was there just fifteen minutes ago. "Sherlock?"

"Under your desk, John."

Under my desk.

_Under my desk?_

"What the-?" John stomped over to his desk, pushed his chair out of the way, and was astonished to find the tall detective, indeed, under his desk with his legs crossed on top of one another. His mass of curly hair was currently flattened from the top and his neck was craned to the left, one of his arms stretched far from his body, the other carefully clutching something to his chest. John didn't know how to explain it; he looked like what a jack-in-the-box would probably look like before they cranked the handle. "What the bloody hell are you doing there, Sherlock? You're not five anymore!"

"I'm aware of that!" Sherlock snapped. "I just needed to get something vital for my experiments."

John slumped in his chair, exasperated. "You mean the ball the three year-old daughter of my last patient left behind?"

Sherlock glared. "It's not a toy." _Like hell it's not. _"It could be used to study the refraction of light waves at different temperatures. It could probably expand the ray of visible lights in the electromagnetic spectrum. The possibilities are many."

"I don't care." John came closer to the stubborn detective. "Come out. Now."

"Dr. Watson?"

"Yes, Sally?" John rapidly raised his head and plastered the biggest, fake smile he could muster while widening his eyes. In a state of panic, John closed the distance between the desk and his chair, momentarily trapping Sherlock under his desk. There was a another person here, a normal person. He had a serious reputation to maintain and clearly seeing a grown man crawling from under your desk would not help keep said reputation. "Can I help you?"

"Oh, well, I was just wondering," Right off the bat, Sherlock did not like her. Her voice was an octave higher than normal, he knew from his previous encounter with her from earlier, and if the ruffling against the carpet was any indicator, there seemed to be shuffling about, probably out of nervousness. This woman was quite obviously flirting, the nerve. _Jesus, are women that simple minded? _Sherlock had more respect for the opposite gender than that. "It is close to one o'clock and I haven't seen you go out for lunch yet so..."

Sherlock didn't like it under John's desk. It was so cramped, John's crotch was right on his face.

John's crotch.

Right on his face.

_Interesting_.

"Well, you're right I haven't...-!"

John's scent was really strong here. It was musky and something so deliciously "John" it made Sherlock want to taste... The detective traced his nose along the underside of the doctor's navel, the tip making light circles at the tip of his crotch. He moved his nose the other way, his left hand coming up to palm the already formed tent as the right one began unbuckling the leather belt. "I-I haven't gone to lunch yet but, _hm_!"

With a pop from the opened button and a zip from the zipper, Sherlock carefully opened John's trousers just enough to reveal the throbbing length. As he wrapped his hand around it, Sherlock felt it palpitate against his fingers, once in a while twitching at the contrast of cool air and the heat from his arousal. Sherlock admired the aching cock for five seconds before deciding to fully grasp it and give it a tug.

"I-_ah_!- I think, I...what did you... what did you have in _mmm_... mind?" John grabbed Sherlock's wrists trying desperately to stop his ministrations only to pull them back up as he felt the detective's tongue dart out and suck his middle finger. Sherlock smirked as his fingers grazed his erection languidly, his thumb coming around to the oozing tip and rubbing it once, twice, while his forefinger traced the underside vein, his blunt nails causing more friction. Again, this action was repeated.

"Oh, well, there's this sushi place..."

_Idiot_. Sherlock rolled his eyes at her stupidity. _John detests sushi_. His up and down movement became faster as the length in his hand became slick with pre-cum. "S-_uh_!- sushi? Sounds great."

_Is that so?_ Sherlock marred a frown and became irritated at John's kind gesture towards the blabbering imbecile. Although the irritation soon turned into smugness as triumph overtook his mind. He positioned himself perfectly in between John's legs, his ass barely grazing the top of the desk as his tongue once again darted out. Only instead of sucking a finger, Sherlock was determined to suck the throbbing cock in front of him.

"I'm sure you'll like it." Her footsteps sounded nearer. "It's brand new, they barely remodeled."

John feigned interest. "Really? _Hmm_!" Sherlock kissed the bottom of his shaft only to trace his salivating tongue all over to the tip of John's erection. More seed spilled onto the beige fabric of the doctor's pants as Sherlock began circling the tip, eventually licking the underside as well before meeting the tip once again. "_Ungh_...!"

"Dr. Watson?" The receptionist sounded worried. "Are you alright?"

_He's better than alright._ And with one final lick, Sherlock opened his mouth, hallowed his cheeks, and closed his lips around John's length. With a slurping sound, Sherlock bopped his head up and down, silently humming in satisfaction as he felt tremors run through John's body. His right hand was brought up, cupping the doctor's balls and giving them a teasing pinch. "I..._I...mmm..._" _He's close, I can feel it. _

"Doctor, you're really red and you look feverish. Should I call someone?"

Sherlock stroked John's shaft, going for slow strokes now that bliss was so close. He sucked from base to tip, long and hard and with one more kiss to the tip, John became pudding in his hands. With a groan, John came in Sherlock's mouth, the detective swallowing it fast like thick water. No time to savor it, given the circumstances.

John's post-orgasm pants were the only sound in the room. "Sally..." His faced was flushed and sweat collected on his brow. His forehead was glued to his desk. "Let's leave it for some other time." He took a deep breath. "I'm fine, just go to lunch or go back to work." With a slow nod, the receptionist left leaving John and Sherlock alone.

Suddenly, John's chair was moved back to see the man behind the entire spectacle. Sherlock was under the desk, knees tucked beneath him, hair disheveled, hands hanging limply by his side, and bits of John's white spectacle stuck on the corners of his lips. His green-grey eyes looked back at John innocently. "What's wrong, John?" He licked his lips. "Did I ruin your lunch late?"

John was breathing hard. "You son of a bitch..."

Sorry for the abrupt ending but to be fair, I did manage to introduce a broader sense of plot. I think. Anyways, please review, I'm not that encouraged as I was before writing this so a bit of feedback may give me huge motivation. Besides that, thanks for at least reading this. Take care till the next chapter :)

note: I wrote this whole chapter through bible study. _Oops_.


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